Toyle and Trouble
by princebejitasama
Summary: An ancient artefact has been stolen from the vault beneath Cruxwell Manor. Family patriach, Lester Cruxwell, tasks freelance detective Tybalt Toyle with retrieving the heirloom, and the thief. But soon, as Toyle canvases London's underworld, he realises this is no mere robbery. There is something much bigger afoot... (OC BASED)


Toyle and Trouble

 _Thief in the Night_

Nestled between the rolling hills of the South Downs, it was easy to overlook the existence of the old manor if you didn't already know it was there. It was of Norman design, built from sturdy brick and timber, comprising of two stories with a tall, rectangular tower of stone rising from its north-western corner. The lower level housed the cavernous dining chamber, kitchen, larder and library, while the upper floor housed the fifteen bedrooms, bathroom, study and sitting room. The tower, once used to hold prisoners and disobedient subjects, had long since been converted to an observatory and owlery.

The stately, centuries old building stood as venerable and stolid as it had for the past few centuries, hugging the edge of a steep dike, gazing south across the Downs towards Brighton by the Sea. The most peculiar thing about this curious mansion wasn't its location, nor its size, nor its age, nor the fact that no roads or paths led to it across the hills; it was its history.

Cruxwell Manor was the ancestral home of, as its name suggests, the Cruxwell Family. The Cruxwells were amongst the oldest wizarding families, and the manor itself was a testament to the strength and prosperity of their bloodline – not to mention a shrine to the pride they held in their pureblood status. In times past, members of this ancient and noble house would claim that their lineage could be traced back to the Celtic Druids, but after years of boasting and a lack of real evidence, the prideful Cruxwells eventually refrained from using it as a conversation piece.

Despite a dwindling of numbers and a fall in power, the Cruxwell family were still highly prominent members of the magical community in the south-west, thanks in no small part to their seemingly endless wealth. Gold from the Cruxwell vault filled the pockets of every notable and beneficial witch and wizard south of London. It was rumoured, as well, that old Lester Cruxwell, the current patriarch, had cast his will and influence over parts of the Ministry of Magic itself.

With such a powerful reputation, the Cruxwells had long since believed themselves invulnerable, but as Lester Cruxwell would learn, the truth could not be further from the assumption.

The sound of the door creaking open woke him from his light sleep, and he half cracked an eyelid, glancing blearily towards the door. It was still total darkness within the room, but Lester could make out the silhouette of a man pushing the heavy iron door open. 'Silas?' he called gruffly, his voice rough with the huskiness of those newly awoken. 'That you?'

'Yes, sir,' said a toneless voice.

'What're you doing in here, Silas? What time is it?' He felt annoyance rise up in him, and made no effort to keep the venom from his tone.

'Quarter of four,' replied Silas as he stood on the threshold. 'Please forgive the early awakening, but there's-'

'Quarter of four?!' barked Lester, gritting his teeth. 'Whatever you've got to say, it can wait 'til I'm up," the old man rolled over with a grumble, pulling the blankets up to shoulder height. 'Now be off, and pray I can fall back asleep before the bloody sun rises!' He shut his eyes again, furious beyond belief. Silas knew that he, Lester, wasn't to be disturbed in the early hours of the morning. He'd made Silas his right hand in the belief that he wasn't a stupid man, but perhaps he'd been wrong. Maybe he really was as thick as he looked.

Whatever he was, he was stubborn. Even though he'd been dismissed, Silas had made no attempts to follow through with the order. He remained there, on the threshold, his hand gripping the wrought iron handle, staring into the room. Growling curses under his breath, Lester reached out to the night stand, fumbling in the dark for his wand, and when he found it, sat upright. 'Lumos,' he muttered, and the room was filled with a soft pale light, illuminating its occupants.

Lester's eyes were narrowed and bleary, his grey eyebrows contracted beneath his lined forehead. The light glinted off his bald head, and his lip twitched with annoyance as he pushed the covers away from his torso, revealing his faded grey nightshirt. His gaze wandered past the enormous four-poster bed with its black velvet hangings, past the hippogriff rug adorning the slate flooring, coming to rest upon Silas with vindictive displeasure. The manservant stood framed in the doorway in a high collared cloak buttoned up to the throat, a gloved hand on the door handle. His slender, sharp-angled face remained blank and expressionless below his thin, black hair, which was swept back from his forehead to reveal his premature widow's peak. 'I swear, Silas...' he rumbled under his breath, pointing the wand in his hand at his subject, 'You'd better have a damned good reason for waking me so early, or else...' he left the sentence unfinished, allowing Silas's imagination (even though the pale man had thus far shown he didn't really have one) to run free.

'I do, sir,' he inclined his head apologetically. 'We've had a break in overnight. Someone's entered the vault.'

Lester's eyes widened, and he threw the covers aside, launching himself to his feet. 'WHAT?!' he roared, storming across the cavernous room towards Silas. 'What did they take!? Did you see them!?'

'No,' Silas stepped aside as Lester pushed roughly past him, and fell into step behind the ropeable master of the house. 'They'd already been and gone by the time I was alerted to their presence, and I came directly to you afterwards. I have yet to conduct a search of the vault and premises.'

'Well what are you waiting for?! Search the house!' demanded Lester, taking a turn down another corridor and hurtling as fast as he could go towards the stairwell. As Silas's footsteps dwindled into the distance, the old man allowed himself a moment of fear. Someone had broken into the house, _and_ the vault, all without being detected. That truly was worrying. The vault was protected by a series of very old and very powerful curses, and no one but a member of the Cruxwell family knew how to disarm them.

Or, at least, so he'd thought.

The sight of the open vault door shook him to his core, even though he was expecting it. A massive circular plate of solid steel, fourteen inches think, emblazoned with the Cruxwell coat of arms (a mighty black hound standing atop a rocky hill), it stood ajar just enough for a grown man to slip through. Lester paused for a moment as he gazed, apprehensively, at the vault. Silas had said he hadn't searched the vault yet, and he was currently scanning the perimeter for any sign of the intruder. Was the culprit perhaps still inside? Trapped by the vault's protection? Waiting, wand raised, for someone to investigate? Perhaps it would be wise to wait for Silas, just in case.

' _Nonsense!'_ a voice barked firmly in the back of his mind. _'You're a Cruxwell! If they're in there, all the better! You can show them the full weight of your utmost displeasure!'_ Squaring his shoulders, he slashed his wand at the door, and it flew open fully with a groan, banging hard against the stone wall. He squinted into the dim, shadowy vault, taking a step forward to see better. His gaze raked back and forth across the earthen room, looking for something out of place until...

"SILAS! COME HERE! NOW!"

When the manservant arrived, he found Lester leaning against the wall beside a freshly lit torch, pale and ashen faced. He looked up as Silas approached, his eyes wide and uneasy. When he spoke, it was in a hushed whisper, rather than his usual demanding grumble. "I need you to find me a detective. A freelancer. The best one money can buy," he said quickly and quietly. "Don't ask questions, just go. Now."

Silas didn't ask questions. He turned swiftly on his heel and marched towards the doors.

The old man waited until Silas was out of sight, then sank to his haunches, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. This was bad. Worse than bad. Not even just the fact that someone had gotten through the vault's security any more, either.

He glanced over at the open vault again, and felt something akin to cold fingers tracing their way up his spine. If Silas couldn't get the damn thing back, if it fell into the wrong hands, if it ever got traced back to _him_... Lester shivered as he pushed himself back to his feet. Normally, Lester wasn't the type to drink before lunch time, but on a morning like this, he was willing to make an exception. A few glasses of wine, perhaps even mouthful of Ogden's, just to settle the nerves.

Today was not a good day.


End file.
